Let's Not Kill Someone
by Zaldun
Summary: After Cicero bothers the Listener too much about killing someone, the Listener gives Cicero a challenge: Don't kill someone. Be a thief, instead. Hell, go to Riften and join the Guild. It's a surprisingly productive challenge.


"Listener," Cicero crooned for the forty-seventh time that day. He leaned close to the Listener's exposed ear. "Let's _kill_ someone."

Faren, the Listener, sighed for the forty-seventh time that day, and flipped the page for the forty-seventh time that day. If anyone else had done this, he probably would have repeated the cliché that doing the same thing multiple times and expecting a different result was the definition of insanity, but. Well. Quite honestly, Cicero couldn't see how the Biography of Barenziah was that interesting—unless it was really The Lusty Argonian Maid disguised in the cover of the Biography of Barenziah. There was no excuse to pay more attention to that drivel than to Cicero.

Cicero threw his body to the floor, one hand over his forehead, right at Faren's feet as Faren leaned back in his chair. "Why, Listener, _why?_ Why won't Faren do anything with poor Cicero? Why does he hate fun so much? Whatever shall Cicero do?" He curled up on the floor. Fake sobs racked his body. He would take a kick over silence.

Faren groaned and when Cicero chanced a glance back up, he saw that Faren had buried his face in the book. "Don't you have anything better to do, Cicero?"

Cicero sat up, any semblance of tearfulness erased. "Cicero has oiled Mother no less than three times today, replaced all the candles around her, and even made her a crown of nightshade from the vampire child's collection, but Cicero is still _so_ bored!"

"It's only the morning."

"Cicero is aware of that, and that does not make it any less distressing."

Faren rubbed his forehead. "Alright, I'll give you a challenge."

Cicero jumped up from his spot on the ground and began to dance, kicking his feet out to music that didn't exist. "What's the challenge? Whose blood will coat my blade? Tell dear Cicero what the challenge is!"

" _Don't_ kill someone."

Cicero cocked his head. "Oh, well that's not right. Cicero hates to be impudent, but he believes Faren has misspoken. A bit."

"No, I didn't. Don't kill anyone. That's my challenge."

"Is the listener right in the head?"

"Don't kill anyone for three days. See if you can resist slitting throats." Faren was smiling now, stretching his beard and showing some teeth, leaning forward in his chair nearer to Cicero.

"I feel as though I have already fulfilled that challenge, just from living in this past week."

"You stabbed someone to death just yesterday, remember? The idiots in Dawnstar bothered me about it when I was doing some shopping, they wouldn't stop screaming about how huge the bloodstain was. Apparently you've given them more nightmares. Vaermina didn't need any help with that, but I'm sure she appreciates the effort."

"Oh, right. Cicero forgets. He bores too easily. If only the Listener would…" The ears on his cap drooped.

"Challenges aren't boring."

"This one is."

"Well here, let's make it interesting. Go to Riften and see about joining the Thieves Guild. Be the best thief you can possibly be. You're one requirement is that you can't kill anyone. Because that's not what thieves do. No knives, Cicero. Not unless you're using them to open mail."

"But thieves are strange, I don't want to _be_ one! Why would anyone take someone's things _before_ killing them?"

"I dunno, Cicero, I'm not a thief, am I? Why don't you ask them yourself?"

Cicero stared at the floorboards. No thrill of stabbing someone and seeing the life drain out of their eyes. No watching blood gush out of wounds. No beautiful red stains blossoming over fabric and walls.

"Is this really what the Listener wants the Keeper to do?"

"Yes. By Sithis, yes."

"All right. Cicero lives to serve."

"Ditto. Now shoo, I've gotta read about bread too big for ovens."

#

After a day of travel Cicero had made it all the way to Riften. Day one of no killing down. A particularly abrasive Redguard had done his best to test Cicero's patience, but just in case, Cicero had left his ebony dagger back at the sanctuary. That didn't mean he was incapable of murder, it just meant he would be less likely to go through with it. His fingers had itched to wrap around the Redguard's thick neck. But he clasped them behind his back instead and waved off his murderous instincts with a laugh. If the Listener gave the Keeper a task, he would complete it. No matter how nonsensical.

Cicero brushed off a quick extortion scheme by a guard at the gates— the guard was disappointingly nonviolent— and went through the city gates to the lackluster city that was Riften. It was garnished with rotting wood and grime everywhere, and mills of people in the marketplace.

From the stories he had heard of Riften, Cicero expected there to be at least two thieves popping out of every house, with heaps of loot jingling in their leather pockets. Evidently the stories had not been entirely truthful. Well, if Cicero was going to be a thief, he should start now. After all, you couldn't join a jeweler's guild if you've never so much as strung a beaded bracelet before, could you?

Cicero selected the first house on the left— that seemed as good as any. People ignored his lockpicking so easily. Or they didn't notice, but considering the city it seemed more likely they were just ignoring him. The lock clicked open and Cicero slipped into the house. There was a quiet rustling from the lower floor— which could mean there was a thief, or that the owners of the house were present. Cicero sneaked to the edge of the cellar and peeked into the lower floor. No, that was a thief going through a chest. He wore the signature armor that even Cicero knew. And if he hadn't known, the numerous pockets would have given him a bit of a clue.

"Pardon," Cicero said. The thief jumped and whirled around, a knife already out. Cicero smiled. That would be no use.

"What the hell?" the thief said at the head that poked in from the ceiling. "Get out of here before I gut ya, this is my mark!"

"Cicero would just like to know how to join the Thieves Guild."

"I don't— just go the marketplace, go screw Brynjolf up some more."

"Brynjolf?"

"The redhead who sounds like he's putting on a bad Dunmer accent."

Cicero nodded, which was a bit difficult considering the position of his head. So he had to steal from this Brynjolf character and that would get the Thieves Guild to pay attention to him.

He swayed to the marketplace, wondering if the floorboards could feel him walking on them. They creaked, so who's to say that wasn't a cry out in pain at every step? The market milled with people, and he crouched down to look for bright red hair.

"You need practice, lad, I can see you plain as day," said a voice that sounded like its owner was pretending to be from Vvardenfell.

Cicero looked up. Red hair? Check. Dunmer impersonator? Check. The man wore fine clothes, navy blue and quilted, and looked down at Cicero with crossed arms.

"I did nothing, sir," Cicero said, almost sang.

"Aye, lad, and my mother was a horker. I can help you with that practice."

Ah, he wasn't meant to steal _from_ Brynjolf, he was meant to steal _with_ Brynjolf.

"Oh, I don't think so. But Brynjolf is welcome to try."

"I'll meet you in the Bee and the Barb. The bustling marketplace isn't the best location for a discussion, is it?"

A smile playing on his lips, Cicero shook his head.

#

"Alright," Brynjolf said once he had come into the Bee and the Barb, about five minutes after Cicero, and coincidentally, about five minutes into Cicero's card tricks, "Put those down. You ready for a job?"

Cicero pocketed the cards. "Cicero is all ears. His entire body is made of ears. Ears are sprouting on his arms, his chest, his face. He is ready to hear."

Brynjolf pursed his lips. Basically, he explained, Cicero needed to steal Madesi's ring and put it in some Dunmer merchant's pockets.

"Planting? Pickpocketing? Fishing through other people's pockets?" Cicero… had never had much use for that. But if the Listener requested it, the Keeper would do it.

"Yes. I'll make a distraction and you do the pickpocketing."

How was Cicero supposed to do this? He had never actually done much pickpocketing in his time as an assassin. Possibly because it was useless to grab stuff from someone you were about to kill. They were much less likely to notice your thievery if they were already dead, after all, and for some reason merchants would buy what he'd taken from people he had killed, but not ones he had just stolen from. Even if he killed them afterward. This is to say that Cicero had no experience with planting rings on people.

"Cicero will see what he can do about it," Cicero said. Future Cicero could worry about it. Present Cicero just had to worry about getting into the Thieves Guild.

The part involving unlocking sliding doors and lockboxes came as second nature to Cicero. He had unlocking things since he was old enough to know what a lock was, and he had been sneaking ever since he figured out that he could play outside at night if his parents didn't notice.

Once he got to the part involving pickpocketing, he cursed his past self for giving his future—that is to say, present self—the problem of pickpocketing with no help. Brand-shei had decided to sit on the other side of a crate pile, so that Cicero had enough room to fit his arm through to Brand-shei's pocket and not much more. There was nothing for it then, was there? He couldn't very well walk around and ask Brand-shei if he could put this incriminating evidence in his pocket, could he? Clutching Madesi's ring, he stuck his hand through the opening.

"Huh? What're you—Guards!" Brand-shei exclaimed.

Cicero erupted into a fit of laughter. "Cushion for your tush-ion, lots of cushion for your tush-ion!" he chanted.

The guards who had been coming to arrest Cicero paused. One guard was halfway into drawing her weapon when she saw Cicero dancing and froze, hovering between drawing her weapon and letting the crazy man do what he wanted. "Are you… sure?" The nearby merchants had started a rumble of laughter when they realized what Cicero was saying.

"Oh, whatever," Brand-shei said. His grey cheeks had started to tint red. "Just make sure he doesn't do it again."

Cicero retreated from Brand-shei's stall. Brynjolf's Vvardenfell accent came from just over Cicero's shoulder. While Cicero was a bit surprised, he didn't jump.

"Well, lad," Brynjolf said. "That's one way of getting out of an arrest."

"Cicero is sorry that he did not plant the ring successfully. He will try harder next time."

"He's too suspicious of you to let you try that again. I'll just get someone else to do it." The ring exchanged hands. "I won't pay you for that, but it's hardly unexpected. My outfit has had a run of bad luck lately. So if you're really sure you can do better next time, come visit the Guild. You'll have to go through the Ratway. Just to prove you've got what it takes."

"Ehh, Brynjolf," Cicero said. "Does proving Cicero has what it takes happen to involve killing anybody? Poor Cicero would love to, but he has been strictly banned from murdering."

Brynjolf's brows furrowed and he turned his head to the side, but he still responded "Then Cicero had best be good at sneaking."

Cicero pouted and huffed, but Brynjolf wouldn't change his mind. Ah, well, at least Cicero was better at sneaking than pickpocketing.

#

Cicero was disappointed at the Ratway. It put a dent in his challenge of not killing anyone. He could sneak by, sure, and he did sneak by the first two lowlifes. It wasn't easy, but they were to worried about their own situation to notice Cicero. Cicero found the locked gate, and thought himself clever to skip over most of the Ratway. He would have made it all the way to the Guild without incident, too, except the khajiit at the table was a little too observant. Cicero broke out into a run, and Dirge had to shoo the khajiit back into the Ratway by flicking sewer water at it.

The Ragged Flagon was little more than a dinky bit of boardwalk over the sewer. Cicero hadn't expected anything nice, but maybe something a little less depressing would have been appropriate.

Brynjolf shook his head at the spectacle, but even that wasn't enough to disqualify Cicero from joining. "Alright, lad, you made it, even if you had a straggler with you. Before we can induct you into the guild, you need to do a job for us."

"Another?"

"You mucked up the first one. Yes, another. Elgrim, at Elgrim's Elixirs, used to supply us with invisibility, sneak, and pickpocket potions. He doesn't anymore. We need to know why. It would also be useful if we could convince him to supply us again. Through whatever means you deem necessary."

"Would you like me to slit—oh, no, sorry. Cicero cannot. Forget it."

"How on Nirn will a dead alchemist make us potions, lad? We don't want you slitting anything. If anyone ends up dead, you'll be blamed for it. And if you want to come back to the guild, you'll need to pay some extra money, because these potions are worth our money."

"That's all you care about? Gold? What about fun? Laughter? Happiness?"

"Says the one who talks about slitting throats."

"That is happiness."

"See if you can find happiness from slinking through the shadows. Or with the coin you'll get from it. Any good thief would trade his own mother for a few septims."

"His mother, you say? Cicero would die before he traded his mother away."

"It's not important, lad, just get on the job. Check the ledger first, see if there have been any untoward payments."

#

Cicero's first instinct was to wait until the alchemist and his wife had left the shop to go searching for herbs. They would have to do that eventually. Even though Babette liked to stay inside, too, she still had to get ingredients sometime. So Cicero did what he did best. He sat and hummed.

The alchemist and his wife left that evening, after the shop closed. But when Cicero crept in, he heard a quiet female voice from the back. Curious, he crept through the main room, past the merchant's desk and to the bedroom in the back. A woman bent over a table, holding a vial of potion in one hand and a rat in the other. Cicero perched atop a dresser, his cloth boots silent against the wood, and watched.

"Just a little more," she said. She held the vial over the rat and let her potion drip onto its fur. The rat jittered in her hand and wriggled around, but she just grabbed it with more vigor and petted it on its head with one finger. "Shh, shh, little rat. It will be alright." She checked its eyes and studied the blackened fur where the drop had fallen. "Fascinating," she said, making notes in her journal.

And it was. Ah, death at last. Cicero swung his feet around so he could sit on the dresser as if it were a chair. He had meant to just settle in to watch, but she chose that moment to look up.

"Who are you?" she squeaked, the dead rat hanging in her hand, her eyes wide.

"Please, continue. Don't let little old Cicero keep you from your experiments, he was just observing. And admiring."

"I'm not—it's just my experiments."

"Cicero can see that. I understand more than you may think. I know another alchemist you may get along with. Death is fascinating, wouldn't you agree? There is nothing more satisfying than to watch the life drain out of your victim's eyes. To watch the transition from life to death. Clearly you understand."

"It's… no. I don't."

"Cicero is glad to have found a creature as fascinated with the void as he. But unfortunately, he isn't here for dead rats and alchemy experiments. Do you happen to know why Elgrim hasn't supplied the Thieves' guild with any potions lately? Silly business talk, I know, but I did not make the rules."

"You think… you think I would tell my master's secrets to some jester who snuck in here? Get out!"

"Cicero really hates to do this, but you are Ingun Black-Briar, correct? He has heard of you. Your mother is Maven Black-Briar, correct? What would she think of all this? What would the rest of Riften think?"

Ingun paled.

Cicero put one gloved finger to his lips and cackled. "Don't worry. Cicero wouldn't tell a soul. Not if Ingun tells Cicero what Elgrim is doing."

"Mjoll—she's the strawberry blond Nord who walks around Riften with that boy following her around like a lost puppy. The one who speaks out against the Thieves Guild—no offense. She got to Elgrim. I kept on telling him it's best to just go with the guild, I swear, but he wouldn't listen. Kept on saying he wouldn't put up with this anymore. I don't know if you'll be able to convince him."

"Cicero will find a way. Cicero can be very persuasive when he wants to be."

Ingun shrunk back at Cicero's grin. "And don't tell Elgrim I said anything, either."

"Don't tell him you said what? Cicero heard nothing. Cicero is alone in the alchemy shop, finding things out on his own."

Ingun laughed uncomfortably.

#

Elgrim hadn't been hard to convince. Cicero just stole a wicked-looking knife from the blacksmith and made his way to the Bee and Barb, where Elgrim and his wife were having dinner. They had been more than reasonable once Cicero whipped out the knife and explained, in minute detail, how he was planning to murder them. And how the guards would ignore it, if the Thieves Guild did it.

Cicero snuck back through the Ratway. Once he announced his success to Brynjolf, Brynjolf took him to the back. A secret room! Then, a secret cavern! How exciting! And he was introduced to Mercer Frey, who greeted him with a surly grimace and a hostile growl. "For better or worse, you're part of the guild, now," Mercer said. "You want to know what that entails?"

Ah, Mercer. So tough. So in control. All could be erased with the thrust of a knife. Cicero let out a quick chuckle. "Cicero is dying to know."

"It means you don't piss off the client. You fill whatever job you're given. You never steal from Maven Black-Briar. And you don't talk back to me."

"Rules, rules, all these rules! Riften is full of thieves, lawless thieves, why do they follow rules!? What… madness."

"We follow _rules_ because that's what gets us the _money,_ and if you don't have a burning desire for money, _maybe_ you shouldn't be here."

Cicero did not have a burning desire for money. He did not say as much, just pressed his lips together and did not laugh. Mercer explained this new "Goldenglow job," but really, by this point, Cicero would have rather let spiders eat his face off than be shackled by all these rules. He nodded along until Mercer shut up, said he would take care of it, and left the Ragged Flagon.

#

This was all silly. And it took a lot to make _him_ decide something was silly. What was the point of these rules? Well, Mercer had said. It's to keep the clients happy! That was nothing like the Dark Brotherhood. The only thing a contract could guarantee was that the person indicated would die. Anything beyond that was just bonus. And assassins often did the bonus, but it was never required and if they wanted to flagrantly disobey the contract's wishes, that was fine. They just shouldn't expect a returning customer.

Faren had told him to be the best thief he could. And how could Cicero be the best thief he could if some of the houses were off-limits? The richest ones, to boot. No less-holy-than-thou rules would keep him out. No, Cicero would rob the Black-Briars blind. If he could manage that and keep Maven from finding him, that would make Cicero the best thief. The Thieves Guild could scamper off into the Void for all he cared. Faren would be horrified to learn how unlawless they were, anyway. And he had only said to _see about_ joining, not actually join. Cicero could steal by himself, and better, too.

#

He robbed Mjoll the Lioness that night. He had been on his way to Black-Briar Manor when he had come across the little mark that he had been told meant "danger." Ah, so that was why the guild had never bothered to get rid of her. They were just scared? Some Thieves Guild they were. Even if Cicero couldn't kill anyone, that wasn't going to stop him from going on in there. He could sneak. If the rest of them couldn't, that was their own loss. Cicero would be naught more than a little dartwing on the wall.

He left Mjoll the Lioness's house with a sack full of goods. He had picked up the sack in her basement and just scoured her house, grabbing anything that looked remotely valuable. Today was the last day before he could kill again. And he hadn't become a fearsome thief yet. As Cicero stood by Black-Briar manor that next morning, he saw Mjoll the Lioness storming to the keep, muttering obscenities at the Thieves Guild under her breath. Cicero chuckled as she walked by. Loud enough for her to hear, but people tended to discount his random chuckling as insanity.

Black-Briar manor was apparently "protected." How ridiculous. If Cicero wanted in, he would get in.

It was the same story when he found the extremely locked door in the basement, near Ingun's room. It might have deterred a different thief. A less determined thief. But why would someone put a master lock on a door unless they had something extremely valuable to hide? Keeping quiet so Ingun wouldn't wake, he scraped the pins of the lock and tapped them with his pick until they stuck in the right place and he could twist the door open.

He hadn't expected what he found inside, but maybe he should have. A skeleton. A human heart, and some flesh. Nightshade. _A Kiss, Sweet Mother_. Well, Maven was rich, but stealing this wouldn't really make him an excellent thief, would it? He saw a paper on the ground. He picked it up.

Ah. A letter to Astrid. Maven Black-Briar. On friendly terms with the Harlot. To Astrid, Sithis and the Void weren't creatures to worship, they were a silly thing to believe in— not that she cared what any member believed, so long as they deferred to her as if _she_ was the real Night Mother. No, Astrid worshiped the Dread Lord Septim. And, it appeared, Maven had influenced that. Maven had taken part in turning the Dark Brotherhood from a cult into a group of mercenaries.

It was unfortunate that Astrid hadn't managed the contract yet. Well, with Astrid in her current predicament, perhaps Cicero could show Maven an example of an assassination. A demonstration, if you will.

Cicero noticed that he was gripping the letter hard enough to crease it. That wouldn't do. He relaxed his hand and smoothed the letter against the wall.

"Yes, a demonstration, that would do nicely," he muttered to himself. And laughed.

He heard a gasp from the doorway and looked up. He just laughed harder when he saw who it was. "Hello, poisoner," he said. His grin didn't falter as he watched Ingun struggle with whether to reprimand him for being in her house or to tell him not to call her a poisoner or to ask what the hell was going on here in the first place. She stood there with her mouth open for a few moments.

Cicero's laughter ran its course. "Is this a surprise?" he said. "It is your mother, after all, I would assume you had known about this."

"I don't pay attention to which particular political schemes she wastes her time with," Ingun said. "Why are you, a member of the Thieves Guild, in Maven Black-Briar's house?"

"The Guild is a distraction," Cicero said. "Do you know who I really am?" He looked at _A Kiss, Sweet Mother,_ then back at her.

"You're that thief," Ingun said. Uncertainly.

"Have you ever felt you were destined for something greater? Something more substantial than experimenting in the back of alchemy shops?"

Ingun's head gave a slight nod before she pulled it back into cooperation.

"There are so many more test subjects where I come from. Endless nightshade. A like-minded alchemist. You'll like it."

Perhaps a demonstration could wait. Let Maven see how she liked losing something precious to her. The thievery of lives was the best kind of thievery, of course. But Cicero would settle for the thievery of a person.

Cicero made a little humming sound in his throat. "Ingun."

"What?"

"Let's _kill_ someone."

#

"Brynjolf." It was the voice of Maven Black-Briar. Which, for various reasons, made him freeze halfway through drinking whiskey, straight from the bottle. He had issues, alright?

"Maven Black-Briar," he said, getting up. "It's a…" —he struggled to find the right word— "pleasure to see you. What brings you to the Ragged Flagon?" Maven Black-Briar, going through the Ratway? A sewer door under a graveyard? Not unless it was extremely important.

"I was under the impression that being allied with the Thieves Guild afforded me some protection from thieves. Particularly from thieves that belong to the guild."

Oh, shit. He couldn't outright deny that something Maven said had happened, that would be career suicide. But what Guild thief in their right mind would steal from Maven Black-Briar?

"You think it was a guild thief did this?"

"I heard _someone_ cackling in my basement last night. And I think we both know a thief who cackles."

Fuck. And that Cicero was from Brynjolf's outfit, too. Maybe Delvin was right about the curse.

Maven leaned closer. "Don't expect me to come to you for many more jobs if you can't even keep your own thieves under control when they try to rob their benefactors."

"Gods, Maven, I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix this, does it? Do I have insurance or not?"

"Yeah, of course," he almost felt the word 'lass' slip from his tongue but he figured that would only make things worse. Luckily, he managed to stop himself in time. "We'll get what he stole from you back."

"Good," Maven said. "See that you do." She turned around and started walking back to the Cistern.

"Wait," Brynjolf called. "What was it he stole?"

"My daughter. Best of luck."


End file.
